


speaking of love

by smithens



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Love Confessions, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 12:28:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13740882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithens/pseuds/smithens





	speaking of love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Oilan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oilan/gifts).



“Is it not for this reason, Courfeyrac, that a man may look at another and say -  _I love you_ ; that a passing glance or gentle touch may communicate some shared feeling: call it what you will, I shall choose humanity. Men must stand as one in times such as these. It is our duty to one another and to ourselves.”

Combeferre looked at his two friends: Courfeyrac blushed the color of a bitten plum; Enjolras gazed loftily in some nondescript direction centered between them, as though distracted. Combeferre knew this look well enough to know that it was indicative of a state of melancholy - the sort only Enjolras seemed prone to, that required an innate foreknowledge none of the rest of them had.

A moment ago, while speaking of love, they had locked eyes.

In truth, Combeferre could not bear to think too much of it, but something in him soared.

“That is inspiring, Enjolras,” said Courfeyrac, “but what I meant - what I said was a metaphor regarding my latest mistress, not the coming together of man in the face of adversity. She is simply too emotive, and too soon for my liking - almost like Marius Pontmercy, but less pretty, and not nearly as tolerable.”

Enjolras blinked as though coming to from a stupor, then lowered his gaze.

“Politics and romance are intertwined for you, my friend, are they not?”

He seemed amused. Courfeyrac put his hands in the air and shrugged.

Beneath the table, Enjolras set his hand upon Combeferre’s thigh.

* * *

Later, after Courfeyrac had long since departed and the brasserie had filled and then emptied of other patrons, Combeferre and Enjolras sat still at the table, now across from one another rather than beside. Enjolras was reading; Combeferre was pretending to.

Time seemed remarkably short when they were together: like a fascinating and well-written book, or a perfect wine for a low price, or a comfortable diligence journey, or something else which was out of the ordinary and wonderful but needed, as all things, to come to an end eventually.

Too much had happened in the last year between them.

And yet Combeferre saw no end in sight, despite anticipating it.

After their afternoon together, the spark in his chest that hoped that perhaps this time there  _wouldn’t_  be an end had turned to a flame.

* * *

Enjolras walked with him until but a few paces before the porter’s door. They were some close thirty minutes prior to the hospital lodgings’ curfew.

“Some afternoon we ought to do this again,” said Combeferre to him, hoping his smile made up for his weary tone. “The moment I’m sure I’ve a free day again I shall let you know.”

“You will be at the Corinthe in a few days?”

It was a simple verification, but from Enjolras, out of place - and almost insulting.

“Of course. Do not doubt it - a few lectures and papers won’t dissuade me from the society.”

“You are occupied; that is all. You need not come  _always_ , though I assure you your presence will be missed if you choose not to. You told me of your exams.”

They stood, facing one another, and Combeferre knew suddenly the source of Enjolras’s stiltedness and unease.

“What have you to say to me?”

Having received an invitation to be direct, Enjolras did not waste time:

“That I love you, Combeferre, and that it is beyond duty. I have accepted it for what it is. After all that has occurred between us, I presumed you would appreciate my saying so aloud.”

Something in Combeferre’s head seemed to stop working; and then in his fingers and toes, and then in his chest.

He took a breath.

“You did, already, didn’t you.”

Enjolras tilted his head, uncut flaxen hair falling in front of his temple. The sunset gave his hair and face a handsome gleam.

“I had hoped you’d noticed.”

“Alas, for I convinced myself not to hope for my own sake. You know it, already, and surely have  _noticed_ my saying it before, but I love you, Enjolras, also.”

Combeferre wished that they would embrace.

The door to the residence opened; the porter leaned out as though to tell them to hurry up.

Enjolras clasped his shoulder, instead, with an apologetic expression. “Goodnight, Combeferre.”

“Goodnight.”

And after entering his bedchamber but minutes later, he went directly to the window to watch Enjolras depart.


End file.
